


our city (underneath this tree)

by listentowhatiwrite



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentowhatiwrite/pseuds/listentowhatiwrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael sees him as he’s walking through Central Park one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our city (underneath this tree)

Michael sees him as he’s walking through Central Park one day.

He’s walking on the sidewalk in the Music Pavilion, when he sees the kid. The boy looks no older than sixteen, with dark hair and bright brown eyes behind thick rimmed glasses, and a fair amount of stubble lining his chin and cheeks.

He holds a guitar tenderly in his arms, the sling around his torso probably the only thing keeping it upright. The black case for said guitar is placed on the ground, and Michael can’t help but wonder why a kid, so young and so full of opportunities is here, in the middle of Central Park, playing guitar for small tips?

From where he stands, Michael can see that the case barely has a dollar in it. Change is dispersed around the bottom and a couple of singles, crumpled and unwanted, are have been thrown in. The boy, however, doesn’t seem to be hindered by the lack of money, and continues to play, fingers gently strumming.

He recognizes the song, the theme from a video game he’s played, and Michael smiles, if only a tad bit.

Michael moves forward towards the younger boy, his hand reaching inside of his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out the leather and flips it open, two fingers reaching inside of the pouch and grabbing the first bill he can find. He brings out the five, and, as he reaches the boy, he places it in the case.

The boy looks up and smiles at him, giving him a cur nod, and he’s back to looking down at his guitar, lips pursed in concentration.

Michael walks away, feeling satisfied with himself.

+

A month or so passes before Michael returns for another walk through Central Park (because, _really_ , it’s too big to see in one day and too overwhelming to go continuously).

It’s winter now, snow litters the ground, and Michael has to tug at the beanie on his head as a particularly cold gust of wind passes by him. Just a normal day in New York.

He’s making his way back through the park, passing through the Music Pavilion again and he sports the kid again.

A red scarf is tugged tightly around his neck, and a heavy jacket is pulled onto his shoulders, hugging his frame tightly as he’s crouched above that guitar again.

His gloved hands strum just as carefully as ever (and that has to be hard, because he’s wearing fucking gloves) and his tongue pokes out between his lips, eyebrows pulled together in concentration.

And Michael again has to wonder: what is a high school kid doing in Central Park playing for tips?

And this time as he walks up to the kid, he doesn’t reach into his wallet for a bill or any sort of change. Instead, his main goal of this is to find out what the fuck this kid is doing.

“Hey,” he calls out, and the boy’s head shoots up to look at Michael. His fingers stop playing, and all of his attention is on Michael.

He clears his throat once, a fist pressed against his mouth as he coughs, before shoving it back into his pocket (‘ _It’s way too fucking cold for this_ ,’ he thinks). “Why aren’t you in school?”

The boy looks confused at this. “I’m sorry?” he says roughly.

“Aren’t you in, like, high school or something?” And the boy laughs, honestly and truly laughs at that, and now its Michael’s turn to be confused.

It takes a minute before the kid stops laughing, wiping a tear from his eye. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that one,” he says at first, and Michael is just as confused as before. “I’m actually nineteen. Don’t need to be in high school.”

Michael feels his face turn red, and his hands come up to cover his face. “Oh my god I’m so fucking sorry,” he says thickly.

He’s about to turn away in embarrassment, leave the poor guy alone, when he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up.

The guy is smiling at him now, crinkles by his eyes, and Michael can’t help but smile too.

“So what’s your name? I’ve seen you come by here once in a while,” the guy says, and Michael smiles just a little more.

“My name is Michael.”

And that’s how they start talking. Growing rather tired of standing in the winter breeze, they sit underneath a nearby tree, its branches blocking most of the wind from hitting them.

Michael learns that the guy’s name is Ray Narvaez. He works at a bar not far from the park (he only plays in his free time), that he has an apartment in Queens, and that he loves video games just as much as he loves playing the guitar. Ray’s played it since he was little, and took lessons during school (when he was in school, Michael reminds himself, and he’s embarrassed all over again).

And so Michael tells him some things in return. He tells Ray that he’s twenty-one; that he’s in college, getting his basics because he has no idea what he wants to major in. He tells Ray that he loves video games too (Ray seemed very pleased at that), and he shows him the couple of tattoos on his arm just to prove it.

They talk about a lot of useless things, about work and their childhood, and Ray is still strumming on that guitar of his. They’re so immersed in telling each other things, they don’t see the people that give them a smile as they pass, dropping a couple of dollars in, and walking away with smiles on their faces, cheeks rosy and noses red from the cold.

The sun decides to hide behind the clouds for a while after that and New York grows as dim as ever. Both Ray and he are shaking in their jackets now, and Ray takes enough time to rubs his hands together to warm them underneath of his gloves.

Michael stands up at one point, a grunt passing his lips as he stands, and Ray looks up at him curiously.

“I’ll be right back okay? Just gotta go and get something across the street,” he smiles down at Ray, and the other mirrors him.

He walks away from the other, already missing the company, but he makes sure that when he comes back from the Starbucks across the street that he brings two warm cups of hot chocolate to apologies for his absence.

+

Their meetings become a routine then. On Saturdays, Michael will stop at that same Starbucks and get the same two cups of hot chocolate, and instantly head over to the park.

Ray is always sitting in the same place, on a bench in the middle of the pavilion, so it’s never hard to find him, guitar in hand and case at his feet, all bright smiles underneath his coats and scarf.

They sit and talk for hours on end as people pass, as the world revolves around them, but their stuck in their own bubble, hearts practically in sync.

The days start to get warmer and soon they shed their jackets and replace them with T shirts and jeans and, instead of getting hot chocolate, Michael will bring two bottles of water, and it’s just them.

In summer, they decided to take refuge from the blinding sun on the hot streets and sit underneath of the tree instead of that silly green bench, the coolness of the shade welcoming after long hours spent in the heat and concrete that is New York. They laugh and joke and blush, and everything just seems so perfect.

People can tell now that it’s not just _Ray_ and _Michael_ anymore, its _RayandMichael_ ; that they’re, in Michael’s words, “kind of a package deal.”

And then the days are getting colder. August and September fly by in a flurry of leaves falling and people rushing, light jackets hugging their torsos, to wherever it is their going (“You see that guy over there?” “Yeah. What about him?” “I think I’ve seen him on YouTube somewhere. We technically just saw a celebrity.” “Yeah, well, it’s _New York_.”).

And then winter is back again in a mixture of white and Christmas and cold weather and their back to sitting on that green bench as the park grows deserted.

The sound of the guitar floats through the air, the sweetness of each chord, of each note humbling the city around them. The only other sounds are the birds chirping and the cars rushing by outside in the city, but they’ve grown accustomed to the background noise as they sit in silence, enjoying each other’s company.

And then the music stops, and for a moment, Michael is confused, as confused as he once was a year ago. He looks over to Ray, who, instead of looking down at his fingers, is staring ahead intently, lost in thought.

“You okay?” Michael hears himself whisper. Ray almost doesn’t hear it, but when he does, he looks over and gives Michael a smile that warms his insides, heart skipping a beat in the process.

Ray shrugs, and Michael waits because he knows sometimes that’s all he has to do.

“Did you know that this was the day we first met?”

Michael did in fact know this. He had remembered that day for a long time, and year later, he isn’t surprised that Ray brings it up, so Michael just nods his head.

Ray’s fingers twitch nervously as they subconsciously pluck at the strings underneath. “I’ve just been thinking about stuff, you know? That you kinda changed my life and it’s weird to think about because we’ve only really known each other a year and..,” Ray’s voice trembles slightly and he wanders off, not entirely sure why he’s saying what he’s saying.

“What I mean is that I really like spending time with you. Like, a lot more than I should,” and Michael thinks there’s a blush on Ray’s cheeks, but it could just be the cold.

Michael doesn’t respond for a minute, just watching Ray intently, and the other fidgets slightly, inching away from Michael in fear of whatever rejection he’s about to receive.

When he finally does respond, it’s not with words. One of his hands makes its way to touch Ray’s cheek, gently nudging it so that Ray looks back at him now.

When their gazes meet, time around them stops. The snow stops falling and the world stops moving as they stay in the moment for as long as possible, and soon, Michael moves forward.

Their breath is hot against each other’s face, foreheads just barely touching. Michael doesn’t know who moves first, but someone does, and Ray’s lips are on his.

It’s slow and chaste at first, and Michael wraps his arms around the other, keeping his close and hugged tightly to his chest. The guitar is between them, and it’s a little uncomfortable with the instrument digging into his hip, but it’s Ray and he doesn’t care anymore.

Ray tilts his head to left to deepen it, if only a little and they’re clinging to each other, not wanting the other to move away from their embrace.

They pull apart, breathless and reluctantly, but Michael dives in one last time to place a peck to Ray’s lips, because he can do that now.

They look at each other, into the other’s eyes, a moment of intimacy shared between them.

Ray starts giggling first and Michael joins in after, and soon their loud laughs are ringing through the air, out onto the busy streets of the city, into every corner of every shop, because this is so them.

Their laughter sizzles down to wide smiles and time begins again, returning to its lethargic pace.

Michael and Ray couldn’t stop grinning if they tried.

+

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this headcanon in the Raychael tag on tumblr and I’ve been itching to write this all morning. So micoolmogarjones thank you very much for the idea! Hope this suits you.  
> Tumblr: listentowhatiwrite


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